he an initiate. It was not the same
version as the Louvre picture, but only one mind--the mind of Rembrandt,
only one heart--the heart of Rembrandt, could have so felt and stated the
pathos and emotion of that scene. Controlling his excitement, he turned
over the prints and paused, startled, before _Abraham's Sacrifice_. What
was it that moved him? He could hardly say. But he was moved to an
extraordinary degree by that angel standing, with outstretched wings, by
Abraham's side, hiding the kneeling boy's eyes with his hand, staying the
knife at the supreme moment. He turned the prints, and paused again before
_The Prodigal Son_. Some might call the face of the kneeling prodigal
hideous, might assert that the landscape was slight and unfinished, that
the figure in the doorway was too sketchy. Not so our enthusiast. This was
the Prodigal Son, and as for the bending, forgiving father, all that he
could imagine of forgiveness and pity was there realised in a few scratches
of the needle. He turned the prints and withdrew _Tobit Blind_. In every
line of this figure of the wandering old man, tapping his stick upon the
pavement, feeling his way by the wall, was blindness, actual blindness--all
the misery and loneliness and indignity of it.

"Are these for sale?" he asked the smiling proprietor, without the
slightest hope that he could afford one.

"Oh yes! _Tobit Blind_ you can have for two shillings and sixpence.
_Abraham's Sacrifice_, _Christ at Emmaus_, and _The Prodigal Son_ are four
shillings each."

The enthusiast could not conceal his astonishment. "I thought Rembrandt's
etchings cost hundreds of pounds," he said.

"They do, but these are merely reproductions. Only a millionaire could hope
to possess a complete collection of first states. These are the
reproductions that were issued with M. Blanc's catalogue. He made them from
the best proofs in his own collections, and from the public museums. You
should compare them with the originals. The difference will astonish you.
It's candle-light to sunlight, satinette to the finest silk."

"But where can I see the originals? I don't know any millionaires."

"Nothing easier! Go to the Print Room of the British Museum or to the
Ionides Collection."

A day or two later the enthusiast, carrying under his arm the roll of four
Rembrandt's etchings that he had purchased for fourteen shillings and
sixpence, ascended the stairs of the British Museum, and timidly opened the
door m